


Heard it in a Past Life

by Prinzenhasserin



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, M/M, POV Outsider, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-16 14:57:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17551835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/pseuds/Prinzenhasserin
Summary: Auguste hates nothing more than owing a debt to the Prince of Akielos for letting him surrender, and it’s no picnic finding out that this is all due to his brother.





	Heard it in a Past Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nabielka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/gifts).



> Thanks to l_cloudy for the beta, you're a gift and I don't deserve you.

The throne room was filled to the brim with noblemen, envoys, and diplomats, and everyone else of rank and name. The air was sticky with the heat of the fires and the different perfumes worn by everyone but the delegation of Vaskians.

Auguste let his eyes rest on the crowd, calmly overlooking about everyone he knew, a tactic he had learned from the man beside him. His uncle stood next to him, in resplendent robes. They were waiting for his brother, as usual. Laurent never seemed to be able to remember that getting ready for the official functions involved slightly more time than his usual rushed preparations.

Laurent had probably spent most of the morning out in the stables, if he wasn't riding, and had come back too late for his servants to scrub him off in time.

"When can we expect your brother to arrive?" his uncle asked, a note of exasperation entering his voice. His uncle was of the opinion that Auguste spoiled his brother too much, and that these instances were a sign of Laurent's lack of respect for his older brother.

Auguste knew better, but he also knew better than to start a discussion about his uncle's projections.

"He'll be here soon," Auguste said, and focused on the dancing. "It's not like he's missing much yet."

Their figures and embellishments were more to his Uncle’s taste than his own, but Auguste had never let anyone know what his tastes were, and let them assume whatever. He didn't mind. It made a lot of people reveal their own preferences more readily.

While they were waiting on Laurent, Auguste could make his court wait—remind them that he was the King and they were subject to his whims, a lesson his uncle would have a lot of words about. Auguste would agree in private, and blame his failures to listen to his scolding on other diplomats or his brother, another reason to send him on a task as soon as possible. He wondered if his uncle would ever think these machinations on purpose but shelved the thought for a later date.

He scanned the crowd for the blond hair of his little brother. Even in the palace among the many exotic beauties, Laurent's hair stood out. There it was, right at the edge of his vision.

His eyes focused not on the shade of hair resembling bright honey, however, but the heir of Akielos standing next to him. Auguste would never be able to forget him--his broad shoulders and striking face featured in his nightmares, were burned into his mind during the battle of Marlas. Damen could've killed him, right then and there, but forced a capitulation instead. He didn't kill him, pulled back at the last minute, hesitated at the last opportunity. Auguste didn't know if he was more furious about losing to Damen, to Akielos, or more furious that afforded with the same opportunity, he himself wouldn't have hesitated. It was harsh, to realise that he was the weaker man both physically and morally.

What was Damen doing at Auguste's Coronation when Akielos had decided to shun his ascension and had sent the most pathetic envoy of all the kingdoms? 

Auguste looked toward the front where an insultingly sparse group of lower rank nobles sat underneath the Akielos Banner. Not even the bastard son of the King was present. But now Prince Damen arrived separately from the main delegation? There was something very suspicious about that, and he didn't need his uncle to notice the appearance of their biggest threat.

The blond hair appeared at the edge of his vision and vanished very quickly again, and Auguste focused for the first time on Damen's companion. His blond hair and built were suspiciously close to those of his younger brother. Was this another threat? But no, Damen would rather conquer him on the battlefield, he wasn't one for the dirty politics of court--but why else would he be accompanied by someone looking so alike to Laurent, so alike to Auguste?

He didn't know how to react--except his uncle should under all circumstances be kept away from incendiary knowledge like that.

The glimpse of hair surfaced out of the crowd, and this time Auguste could make out the differences to his brother. It was a good likeness, yes, but he was older and taller, and while his hair was the same gossamer blond, it was rather short compared to Laurent's long tresses.

A person pushed quietly through his security--Laurent's top button wasn't pulled all the way through, but all of his hair was expertly pinned up and adorned with gems, and from the spectator’s distance nobody would notice the slight wardrobe malfunction. His nose and ears were red from exertion, which other people might ascribe to excitement. The dancing pets in front of him were not quite done with their performance, but Auguste had motioned earlier for them to drag their dance on a bit.

"What did I miss?" Laurent whispered. 

Their uncle thinned out his lips. Thankfully, he was aware enough of the audience to not scold Laurent in front of them. 

The dancers cleared the stage at the sign of the Master of Ceremonies. A clear sigh of relief went through the crowd of spectators, and then the Eldest of the Council ascended. The breath of relief broke off very suddenly.

The drawn-out pattern of his speaking was known by everyone—it seemed to Auguste as if the gravity of the event had been added to his already boring voice to make listening impossible. He kept droning on instead of bringing the ceremony to a satisfying conclusion.

Beside him, Laurent was shifting every few seconds as if he was impatient— or, as Auguste suspected, injured from his escape to the stables this morning. He’d most likely pulled a muscle and hadn’t noticed in the heat of the moment. On his other side, his Uncle stood as if hewn out of marble.

Auguste expected trouble; he remained tense waiting for the crown to be walked along the aisle, waiting for his uncle to snatch it away at the last minute, waiting for the Council to decide that Auguste wasn’t the heir after all. Or perhaps the Gods would descend down to Earth and declare his ascension invalid and a joke.

The chaplain took over, speaking of honour and rightness. A small boy — Auguste hoped he stayed far away from his uncle—appeared at the end of the walkway. He was slow and deliberate. Someone had probably told him what would happen should he drop the priceless antique on the pillow in front of him, and hadn’t been gentle. Nevertheless, he was beaming with pride, almost getting lost in the ceremonial dress someone had put him into. The master of ceremonies had chosen well. 

When the crown was placed on his head, it was heavy. Auguste’s heart, however, was relieved. Now, his every action would be under scrutiny, yes, but at least he wouldn’t be beholden to every slight suggestion from the Council and his Uncle—at last, finally, he might be able to do something, instead of showing deference to every contributor to his father’s war chest.

Auguste could make his own treaties now. He wasn’t keen to start another war only to be obligated to his own nobles instead of some hypothetical enemy’s attacks. Auguste wanted to die on the battlefield, yes, but not with a mountain of debt to his name and his people.

Out of the tail of his eye, he saw the flash of blond hair again. Next to him, Laurent was fidgeting, still, restless. Under any other circumstance, Auguste would have smiled, would have teased his brother — now he was afraid.

Was Akielos planning a coup after all, even though all of his informants had assured him that the kingdom was still reeling from the expense of war themselves, that Marlas had hit them hard without a king lost?

His Uncle’s sources had been telling tales of bandits breaking into the fortified borders. Auguste had speculated on that being a political move to delay the coronation, perhaps even one to cement their next war campaign—either way, he’d been sure the talk of unrest along the border had been factious. He knew how underhanded politics could get, he’d been his father’s heir for most of his life. His Uncle would learn that he wasn’t so easily manipulated.

Suddenly, Laurent sat up and stilled his nervous fiddling. What had he seen? Had he discovered their guests in the back rows?

As soon as the chaplain had concluded the oaths to thunderous applause, and Auguste was allowed to move from the dais, he rushed to his brother. Auguste grabbed onto his shoulder, trying to make the gesture seem natural.

"Later," he said in an undertone.

The muscles underneath Auguste’s fingers were coiled and tense. He could feel him straining. Not for the first time, he noticed that his brother was much stronger than he looked.

"He’s here," Laurent whispered. Auguste didn’t need to ask who he meant, there was only one person Laurent spoke of with such hate. He hoped his voice hadn’t carried clearly over to his Uncle. There was no way to resolve this incident peacefully with his uncle’s input, chief advisor that he was. Auguste wanted to avoid a war, not start a new one. Especially not with Akielos, who killed their last king.

"We’ll deal with it later," Auguste repeated, adding a bit of pressure to the shoulder grip.

From his other side, his uncle asked, "What’s the matter?"

Auguste patted his brother’s shoulder, and then point-blank lied to his chief advisor, "Laurent is a bit impatient for the introductions later. He’s never seen so many eligible young prospects." Auguste didn’t look at the face Laurent was making, strikingly similar to the look of doubt on his uncle’s face. Neither of them were quite foolhardy enough to press the point in front of a crowd of Veretian nobles only waiting to pounce on the slightest weakness.

The coronation concluded, the master of ceremonies opened the doors. Auguste, his head heavy under the ostentatious crown, strode through the crowd of subjects and allies, trying not to pay attention to the sheer gall of the man who had bested him once on the battlefield. 

He was supposed to lead the way calmly to the halls of celebration, but it felt more like he was fleeing from the ceremonial role he despised to the social maneuvering that was at least somewhat entertaining, and that with a huge target on his back. His way—and that of the crowd at his back—was lined with guards he had trained with himself. His most ardent, his most loyal, and yet he felt the terror creeping along his back.

He couldn’t see the blond imposter, nor the Prince of Akielos. They seemed to have vanished without a trace. It seemed impossible to disappear as a prince in a room full of sycophants. 

Inside the hall of celebrations, Laurent caught up to him. Auguste was doing his best to introduce the Vaskian Chieftainess to one of his long-time admirers with the sparse few bits of the language he retained. The introduction might solve two of his problems—the admirer would be occupied, and the Varian Chief might stop asking about more permanent alliances.

He left them to each other, and turned to Laurent. "That was the monster, wasn’t it?" Laurent said. "I didn’t imagine him, did I?"

"I wouldn’t call the Prince of Akielos a monster, little brother."

"Don’t call me that." Laurent slapped away Auguste’s arm. The gesture was half-hearted at best—all the rage in him was directed at someone else. "He was away from the main delegation."

"Yes," Auguste agreed. 

"It can’t be that he’s planning a coup. Or an assassination." Laurent said, and that was true also.

"Please; of me?" Auguste asked. "He was only showing his respect for my ascension to the throne."

Laurent snorted. "After he deliberately humiliated you on the battlefield."

"Listen—" Auguste interrupted. He needed Laurent to understand that this was his uncle talking, that there was no such thing as a humiliating defeat that left your enemy alive, that Damen had given him the most valuable gift a prince could give his enemy, but there was no space nor time for that. He sighed. "He did no such thing. What else was he supposed to do, impale me on his sword? I’m much more interested in his companion—and why he’s not travelling with the main delegation. In fact, the main delegation from Akielos seems to have no idea their prince is present, and he’s also not a part of the diplomatic envoy."

Laurent grimaced, looking mulishly straight ahead. After a few seconds, he said, "Fine. Let me ask some questions around."

"Don’t forget to button your buttons," Auguste called after him.

And then he saw him: Laurent, on the other end of the ballroom, waiting at a doorway reserved for the royal family, waving his arm. Auguste suppressed the urge to turn around to look for his brother—but his brother hadn’t worn these clothes.

Only a King of Vere was allowed that priceless antique—a status symbol of the kingship, and _nobody in this room would have dared_ —

Auguste had worn the black ensemble for his own coronation, the mirror to the one the imposter was wearing now. This was outrageous. Only an enemy of the throne would dare. And there at him, the impostor was leaning against the doorway, waiting, as if he wasn’t one step away from being executed for treason.

Auguste saw red. He didn’t even apologise to the fresh-faced debutante he ran over in his hurry to clear the room. 

And yet, by the time he had arrived at the doorway, the imposter had disappeared. 

While he was deliberating chasing after him, and calling the guardsman standing attention over to him, his uncle had come over, too. "Are you going to leave so soon, Auguste?" asked his uncle, dropping the title entirely.

He needed to get rid of his uncle.

"You can never get back those first few crucial hours for establishing long-term alliances," his uncle continued. "A lot of people will be very confused by your actions today."

Yes, a lot of people would, chief among them his dearest uncle. He couldn’t let his uncle run roughshod over this, however. Laurent didn’t chafe half as much under Auguste’s rule as his uncle did, and Auguste should never ever lose sight of his strongest rival.

Auguste had only his ceremonial dagger, and an equally ceremonial sword with him. It would behoove him to retreat, confer with his advisors, and then go rush after the enemy that had infiltrated his walls. That was the smart choice.

Auguste had never professed to be smart. And so he sent his uncle a look that didn’t entirely conceal his disdain. "I’m going to deal with a situation requiring my immediate attention. You may focus your attention on the furthering of alliances—I have more important business." Then, without regard to what his uncle would make of it all, he left.

When he was certain his uncle wasn’t following him, he stopped to ask the guard, "Did you see the prince go inside?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," the guard answered, nevertheless making clear that he didn’t understand why his king was asking these questions. 

"Right, excellent. Please don’t let anyone—and I mean anyone, not my uncle, not Prince Laurent— follow after me, no matter what happens."

"Prince Laurent? But—"

More sharply, Auguste asked, "Did you understand?" 

"Your Majesty." The guard saluted. 

Auguste left the guard where he stood, and strode to his empty halls. He didn’t know where the imposter was—didn’t know where he’d been going, but that wasn’t his focus at the moment. He wanted to know what happened to the relics of the kingdom, exhibited in the library, that the imposter was now wearing.

Had they replicated one of the coronation gowns? But why then had they not used the one for the king in mourning? Was this a scheme of his uncle to sow discord between the heirs? But no, his uncle would’ve been more devastating, wouldn’t have played his cards quite so openly…

Auguste strode through the palace, his shadow reflected on the gilded mountings lining the walls. It felt more like playing dress-up than the stately uniform it was meant to be. He met nobody on his way to the library, everyone of name and rank having congregated for the celebration of his coronation.

But then, when he stood in front of the big wooden doors of the library, he heard indistinct voices. 

Auguste was well past rage. When he opened the door—hinges silent, despite the heavy door leaves— he couldn’t see anybody. He moved quietly inside, but he didn’t need to have bothered. The library’s occupants were too absorbed with each other to pay him any attention.

The imposter was too similar in size and demeanour for Auguste not to feel utter contempt for the pair of them. They were sitting close to each other, almost indecently close, and under different circumstances Auguste would have arranged a pair of pets in that way. 

Perhaps he was overly judgemental because they looked so much like Laurent and the Prince of Akielos, because now that he had time to get over his first impression, it was not that they were close, it was that it felt close. He wouldn’t have looked twice if it was Laurent and his uncle—but the way that they looked at each other, the way that their body left space precisely so that nobody else would’ve fit between them, the way the tension was palpable—

Auguste was furious.

Then, after he’d gotten over the shock of the Prince of Akielos flaunting his closeness to the man who looked like his baby brother, he registered the dress, again. It looked natural on the imposter, more natural than it had on Auguste, when he had tried it on to decide which he was going to wear. One of the reasons he had opted for the mourning dress. And now this imposter was lounging on the desk practically glued to an enemy of the state wearing one of the kingdom’s most recognisable symbols.

Behind him, the glass cabinet was undisturbed. A second version of that very same dress hung on a mannequin—just like there was a second version of Laurent in a different part of this building.

There was nothing he could say.

On a closer look, Damen’s eyes were lined with crinkles, wrinkles that hadn’t been there the last time he saw him, and shouldn’t have appeared in a mere six months. And then the imposter—he didn’t look that different. More graceful, perhaps, longer in the face—

"Surprised, brother?"

There was really nothing in his vocabulary that could express the way he was feeling right now. Rage and fury were still at the forefront, especially because he felt himself accept this strange premise—and really didn’t want to.

Auguste’s hand was on his dagger. There was a part of him that wanted to call the guards and have them summarily executed. Why hadn’t he brought them along? …to keep his uncle out of his business. That seemed foolish, now that it had turned out he should have worried about his other heir. Or perhaps, that was what he meant to think?

The imposter was sitting up straighter, as if he stood before someone who had his respect. Auguste didn’t want to believe him, didn’t want to see any of his brother’s gestures mirrored in this thief. He closed his eyes, but not before he could register the familiar gesture of him fingering his sleeve. 

"Don’t kill us before you’ve listened to us," said Laurent—because this was Laurent, wasn’t he? No other person would want to wear the hideous, and hideously expensive, garment. 

He was older; older, perhaps, than Auguste, accompanied by an older Damen.

"Gods," Auguste breathed.

"Just one," the older version of his little brother said. "Janus, to be precise."

Auguste didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a close call. There was no talking to Laurent when he was in one of his moods. Instead of saying anything unwise, he focused on the other person present. "So. A plot to take over your neighbouring country after all?"

From the helpless way Damen looked at Laurent, Auguste could tell that it wasn’t necessarily him calling the shots in their relationship. "No?" he asked more than he answered.

Auguste felt the resentment keenly. He didn’t want to acknowledge that he’d been bested by _him_ of all people — and perhaps, it was the best thing to have ever happened to him. Damen wouldn’t intentionally make him remember the incident again and again.

"It was me who needed to see you," Laurent said, more smoothly than Auguste was used to from him. His posture was welcoming, his gestures were open, and Auguste had never felt he stood in front of such a consummate politician except for his uncle. 

There was no doubt who had raised Laurent. And no other explanation for why: "Who killed me, then? Was it Uncle after all?"

His brother looked away, swallowed visibly. Auguste kept his face impassive, not letting his thoughts escape. He should’ve done something about him long ago.

"It was me," Damen answered with quiet dignity.

Auguste had to reconsider. Somehow, this was the confession that made Auguste flounder. He could take the meddling of gods, the appearance of an older version of his brother—but somehow the Prince of Akielos admitting to killing him was too much. He fell into one of the armchairs in front of the time travellers.

"When?" Auguste asked, trying to arrange his thoughts. There was only one big clash between their countries, and he had thought they parted on well enough terms. The reason why he had not taken along his guards for this meeting. Killed by Damen. After he had surrendered to him personally at Marlas, believing in his honour.

"We fixed that already," Laurent said nonchalantly upending Auguste’s world view further. "The battle of Marlas, if you must know."

"Marlas?" Auguste repeated, feeling faint.

"You might be more interested in hearing about who let the Akielons know about your strategy and lead them straight to your position."

Hearing that, several points began to make sense in his mind. Auguste didn’t know how to feel knowing that he had already passed his death, didn’t want to know Laurent’s reaction to him being gone, didn’t want to think about Laurent being raised by their uncle, and so he focused on the new information.

"Our uncle, of course," Auguste said. Who else would have benefitted from a death like that?

The wide-eyed surprise of Damen’s and the satisfaction on Laurent’s face were equally gratifying. He hadn’t lost all his force of personality in this moment of shock. And now he realised why they had come here, why they had revealed themselves like this. Auguste sighed. "There’s nothing much I can do about him," he admitted. "Nothing I could have done."

"Yes," Laurent agreed. "We’re not here to interfere with… your coronation, or the way that you decide to reign."

Auguste arched his eyebrow in reaction. They could’ve fooled him.

Laurent shrugged very deliberately, as if he didn’t want to argue the fact because Auguste could assume whatever he wanted. "I wanted to let you know about the— Uncle." There was something in his posture, the tilt of his head, that reminded Auguste of his brother asking for approval earlier this day.

Auguste was still looking up to his brother, sat in a very comfortable armchair. "So you came here, to what, ask me for approval?" He nodded towards Damen. "It doesn’t seem like you’ve ever cared for it."

His brother’s face was not blank exactly, but neither could he tell what he was thinking. "I can see that you are too distraught to discuss matters of state."

Auguste scoffed. 

Laurent glared at him. "The last thing I want is to make you look weak in front of your court."

Auguste snorted again. "There’s no way the likes of you can manage that. What do you want me to do, huh? Raise you to a baron?"

"No need for that," Laurent smiled, viciously. "You’re already looking at a marquis, thanks to the generosity of the Prince of Akielos. He’s desperate for family members who aren’t trying to sell him into slavery, you see."

Auguste couldn’t help but glance at the Prince of Akielos. He was looking calmly back at him, the perfect, placid shield behind Laurent’s attack. 

"What I want from you is the assurance that you won’t interfere when we go and kill my honoured uncle."

The library was quiet. So quiet that Auguste could hear his own breathing. Of course this was the logical conclusion. This was where it had lead. This future version of Laurent was demanding his uncle’s death, and Auguste should be agreeing. 

There was something eerie about it. He knew — intellectually — that that was also what his own investigations on what went wrong with the Battle of Marlas would lead to. It was quite a different thing to hear it said so bluntly. Because Laurent was asking for justice. He was asking for retribution, both the intent to kill their father and Auguste, and actually managing to kill the king.

Auguste hadn’t wanted to believe it. 

"Go with my blessings," he said, finally. 

"Thank you. I appreciate it." Laurent collected his own dagger, laid out on the desk. Only now Auguste realised that the two of them had been unarmed. Damen was pocketing his own sword. He hadn’t looked Auguste in the eyes much, preferring to stare at Laurent, or the wall behind Auguste.

Auguste held out his arm to hold him up. When Damen looked up, a puzzled frown on his face, he said, "Thank you for looking out for him. Please be good to him." He’d spoken quietly, so that Laurent would have more difficulty to hear.

Damen’s face bloomed into the sunniest smile. "I will," he said solemnly. "Take care of yourself. Ruling isn’t the easiest profession."

"And you’d know."

"Yes," affirmed Damen. He shook his hand, and then left after Laurent.

"Will I be seeing you again?" Auguste called after them, but they had already left.

He let himself fall back into the chair, and closed his eyes. The first day as a king was rather more eventful than he had anticipated. He felt the exhaustion in his bones. He’d held a sliver of hope that he had imagined the entire thing in a bout of extreme sleep deprivation—and he held on to that notion until he had collected himself and left the library, only to stumble into a rush of his guards. 

"What’s the matter?" he asked the captain, who saluted. "Are we under siege?"

"It’s the — your honoured Uncle, your Majesty. He collapsed in the ballroom. He’s dead." 

There was no need for Auguste to pretend the appropriate shock and horror. He ran for the celebration, and there he was, face forward on the ground. The guards had found a physician, but Auguste had seen enough battles to know that his Uncle was gone. 

He looked for his brother, standing against the wall clinging to a friend Auguste couldn’t name, then towards the delegation of Akielos that did contain a line of communication to the Prince of Akielos, although a different version to the one that had become such a rock to his brother. 

"Take him away," he said, and that was that.


End file.
